


Reckless

by CrucioAndCoffee



Series: We Bleed Ambrosia and Ichor Universe [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Death Eaters, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, bipolar!bellatrix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 14:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20977664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrucioAndCoffee/pseuds/CrucioAndCoffee
Summary: Bellatrix is reckless by nature, but then she has an episode where it’s all she is.





	Reckless

**Author's Note:**

> Reupload of something I wrote a couple months ago. Still unsure how much I enjoy writing in present tense. Here’s another stab at it.

A burning sensation pulses in her forearm and beckons for Bellatrix to wake. Her eyes flutter open to the darkness of the room. Soft, cool light filters in from the moon. The dark mark writhes on her skin itching for her to go where she is called. Alecto is not in bed, but the bathroom light is on with light shuffling coming from inside.

Bellatrix steps out of bed onto the icy wood floor. Her body is heavy, and her spirit heavier. She rubs her eyes, hoping to wipe away the pain of sleep deprivation. Again, it had been days without sleep or food. Instead, she is filled with lightning bolts worth of energy, only to crash back to earth hard. Bellatrix stares at her dark mark. It squirms, telling her to go.

She does not want to. Her body and mind need rest, but she has a role to fill. Bellatrix insides are coated in tar, drowning in it, and her movements sluggish. That itching is not that of her dark mark, but a craving for a blade to skin. Yet, her master calls her.

It is not the time for this. Later she can fall apart and break her mistress’ rules and her Lord’s. Bellatrix dresses for whatever mission she and Alecto are called to.

The cool feel of her mask to her skin is enough to ground her. Beneath her fingers, the silver gives her power. She puts it over her features, and the facade slips into place.

Bellatrix swallows the urge to cry.

“Later,” she reminds herself.

* * *

Later turns into bloodshed. Bellatrix feels her life pumping through her veins. She’s alive amidst the chaos, yet her shield charms are weak, mistimed, or unused. The curses she throws have such ferocity her opponents will not survive—if she is trying to win.

She isn’t.

Another spell brushes past her, barely grazing the surface of her mask and hood of her robe. Bellatrix is reckless in her retaliation, waiting for the perfect spell to be her doom. To go down in glory and no one knowing how it was the release she craves is more than anything. The sleepless nights will end, her constant disappointment of Alecto and her Lord over with—the pain numbed.

Her mind will finally be clear, and she’ll learn the meaning of the word calm. Even in Alecto’s arms, she does not have either.

Bellatrix risks death with her carelessness, but she’s just too good. The aurors cannot match her strength, skill, her prowess. She’s not even trying. With Alecto at her side, the duel ends quicker than she wants. The aurors retreat and leave Bellatrix alone in the streets of an abandoned muggle town.

Well, she wishes she was alone, at least. No longer burdening Alecto with her foolishness and sharp cracked edges. Yet, Alecto is there watching her quietly. Her mask comes off and dissipates.

“Bella...” she starts. Her eyes rake over Bellatrix with a glint she doesn’t like. “Love, why?”

Bellatrix’s legs give out beneath her only to rest gently in Alecto’s arms. They both drop to the ground. Her mask is taken off hastily and a hard kiss to her forehead. Alecto’s wand pushes against her skin. The world blurs.

“You’re bleeding out,” Alecto chokes.

Bellatrix merely shrugs.

* * *

Sleep returns to her, but it is unpleasant. Hours in the dark, leaving her feeling as if she didn’t sleep at all. Or it is an acknowledgment of the things she wishes to keep unsaid.

Another night her Lord calls them to battle, and again she fights without care of repercussion. The idea of surviving lost to the wish to die. Voldemort’s anger at her recklessness didn’t matter. If she is punished, she well deserves it.

Bellatrix can only hope this battle is a haymaker and what puts her to rest within the ground.

A spell slams into her chest and knocks her back hard against the earth. Alecto’s gasp and hard stop to not call Bellatrix’s name meant nothing. The silver of her mask no longer touches her skin, and the darkened night sky lets its rain fall. The drops pat against her skin as she rises.

Bellatrix glares down the auror who struck her, only to smirk. The recognition in his eyes holds a strange delicacy. Her identity is revealed, so now someone needs to die.

Perhaps it’ll be her.

Alecto looks at her as if she said it aloud. Even with the mask, Bellatrix knows the face she is making. Her role lost and lowered to merely a concerned lover. Bellatrix doesn’t care. She keeps her attention on the aurors.

The street is soaked in blood that night. Even the rain cannot wash it all away. But worse is Bellatrix is there breathing in the scent of it.

“He’s going to be furious,” Alecto says, watching the area. “You can’t be so reckless.”

“I’ll be what I want, Alecto.” If there was time to be a brat, it is now.

Her mark burns. Bellatrix uses it as an excuse to leave. She cannot face Alecto. The guilt of hurting her stings deeper than anything. Her Lord wants her, though, and she can only hope it’s to end it. But instead, she’s met with the same punishment as always.

The Cruciatus Curse barely hurts her—she’s felt it so many times before. The writhing pain in her skin is no match for what her brain can concoct. Her Lord needs to try harder.

So he does.

What he musters leaves her bedridden and sore, so even Alecto’s soft touches burn. She’s afraid to cry and admit anything. Her cravings to touch Alecto acted upon despite the pain. She deserved it. Sleep is hard and elusive, but the racing thoughts aren’t.

Weeks later, the cycle begins again.


End file.
